


When We're Finally Dead

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 5 & 1, Character Study, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed, Sleep, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: Sleep doesn't come easy to any of them, but they catch it whenever they can.





	1. Reese

**Author's Note:**

> I finished the show! Still in love with it - obviously had to try my hand at more fic. Hope you all enjoy this humble offering <3

**5\. Reese**

 

Wasn’t this nice. Finch had bought him a death trap.

 

John stepped into the apartment but kept one hand on the door, ready to slam it shut at the slightest sign of trouble. Or, more trouble then he could already see.

 

The room was ostentatiously spacious—leaving nowhere to hide. Gorgeous hardwood floors—with no real traction if it came to hand-to-hand. Antique furniture—with crevices just perfect for hiding surveillance. Wall-to-wall windows with a breathtaking view—great for the residents _and_ the snipers.

 

John sighed, resigning himself to Finch’s personal brand of paranoia. He might not know how to Op-proof a room, but John had little doubt that only two people knew this apartment was now leased… and he was one of them. What was that about keeping secrets? If one of them was dead?

 

In fact…

 

John finally stepped inside, pulling his phone out as he went.

 

“Hello, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Finch.”

 

There was silence between them, John not asking why Finch had withheld the address all day, Finch not asking if John liked the apartment now that he had it. For men specializing in knowing everything, they were each surprisingly willing to allow one another the few secrets they had left.

 

John supposed that kept them alive.

 

Rather than interrogating, John peeked around the window, eyeing the other side of his building. “Dare I ask about my neighbors?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply…” Finch sounded smug though. His typing did anyway. John could easily interpret that steady click and clack nowadays and he wondered if Finch realized what a tell it was. If he did, today was a day where he was willing to ignore it.

 

“—safe,” Finch was saying, and the word made John flinch. “You’ll find that your neighbors all share remarkably similar dispositions. Most are getting on in their years, suffer from visual impairments, or have a history of—how shall I put this? Ah, less than _reliable_ recollections…”

 

John found himself nodding, head resting against the wall. Finch might have missed things like the windows, the floor... but he well understood the danger of a clear-minded eyewitness. Hell, he’d invented the most dangerous witness of all.

 

“New number?” John asked, moving things along. Though he already knew the answer. His words weren’t quite a ‘thank you.’

 

The typing ceased briefly. Annoyance? “You know I would have called you if there were.” Chastisement. “Just try to get some rest for now, Mr. Reese. Perhaps even enjoy yourself a bit?”

 

That wasn’t quite a ‘Happy Birthday.’ Both both were close enough.

 

“I’ll do that, Finch.”

 

John hung up before anything unwanted could grow between them. It left him adrift. For the last couple of months he’d been catching unorthodox naps in a series of seedy hotel rooms (his choice, not Finch’s): on a windowsill keeping watch, beside the door in case it opened, in the tub with the lights all on… before that John had slept on the streets. Before that it had been in a silent war zone. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in a bed.

 

Now there was this. So much space and expense that John felt like his heart was being strangled by it. He looked at the ornate headboard and knew in an instant that he couldn’t sleep there.

 

Not yet anyway.

 

Instead, John pulled the pillows and comforter from the mattress, dragging them across the pristine floor and into the closet. He had visions of this space someday holding racks of guns, but for now it would just have to settle for him. Three close walls at his back. A clear view of the room and the door. One entry. One exit.

 

John lay down, knees drawn up to his chest.

 

It occurred to him suddenly that there might _already_ be surveillance in all those little crevices, though if Finch had decided to see first-hand what John thought of the new apartment, it was too much of an effort now to dissuade him. Besides, John was surprised to find that he didn’t much mind if Finch saw him like this. He’d understand.

 

“Night, Finch,” John whispered, just in case, and finally closed his eyes.


	2. Carter

**4\. Carter**

 

“You boys owe me a new suit.”

 

“I’m more than happy to commission one, Detective... as well as a Saturday night dinner at Luciana’s?”

 

It came out as a question, Finch testing whether Carter would be offended by his buttered bribe, or angry that he somehow knew the one classy restaurant in the city that she’d been dying to try—for years now. He sounded tentative overall though, like even a hint of a joke was too much, too fast for them. A privilege that their rocky relationship hadn’t earned yet.

 

Carter smiled though. She wondered if one of his cameras picked it up.

 

“Only if two handsome men accompany me. Girl doesn’t want to go to a place like that alone.”

 

“You’re more than welcome to bring whoever you’d—oh. Oh I see.”

 

Carter’s smile spread into a grin. She could easily picture John over his shoulder, explaining that she’d meant _them_ , genius, and though Carter had only met Finch a few times so far (not counting their iffy meeting in the underground parking lot, John bleeding out between them), she could also well-imagine his stuttering blush. It almost made all this worth it.

 

Almost.

 

“Gotta move things along, Carter,” John said, interrupting Finch’s fumbling.

 

“Yeah. I hear you.”

 

Thinking about fine dinners and the shoes she’d have Finch sweeten the pot with, Carter grabbed the edge of the dumpster and heaved herself in.

 

“Ah, _fuck_.”

 

Slimy, mushy, caving things immediately assaulted her body. It felt like falling into the deep end of the pool before you knew how to swim. Carter tensed and instinctively tried to keep herself afloat, but she sank fast, butt first into a week’s worth of garbage. Something sticky caught a strand of her hair. Wetness polled against her left thigh. Carter let out an involuntary moan that, under other circumstances, she might have been embarrassed by.

 

She couldn’t see it, but she’d bet a month’s wages that John and Finch had both flinched on her behalf. Not that sympathy did her any good here.

 

“It smells,” Carter hissed and stupid as it was, it felt like a revelation. Passing cans on the street didn’t do the stench justice. ‘Rancid’ was the only appropriate word. Carter thought back to her college mini fridge, forgotten over spring break, and her stomach heaved.

 

“Yeah,” John said. There was nothing but sad agreement in his voice. “Just keep breathing through your nose. Manage that and you’ll eventually get used to it.”

 

Carter was about to call out that bullshit when she remembered what her intimidating, clean-cut John had looked like the first time they’d met. She shut her mouth and breathed through her nose, though with difficulty.

 

After a few moments Carter was amazed to find that it _was_ a little better. She huffed.

 

“This makes me worry about what my cruiser must smell like,” she muttered.

 

“I’ll be sure to send you some of those little trees as well,” Finch said. “You’re in the far corner?”

 

Carter moved as instructed. It was a delicate operation. For reasons her super-friends weren’t sharing, a man’s life rested on them retrieving money from a drop off without anyone realizing it had been stolen—at least not by them. This meant no one could see a cop—or anyone looking like a cop—anywhere near the dumpster, and Finch had assured her, with no small mount of grief, that erasing her presence from hours before would be both easier and safer overall. Carter would enter the dumpster at 6:00pm, Finch would erase the footage with a simple loop, at 8:00 a grunt by the name of Hunter would toss 50k into the trash, never noticing the woman hidden in the shadows, Carter pockets the cash, waits 15 minutes, and then leaves 45 minutes before the retrieval is set to take place. Just one more loop then--and if their perp bothered to check the footage, any glitches he’d find wouldn’t by anywhere near the time when the money was supposedly stolen. Given what a dark, cloudy night it was, Carter would hazard a guess that the tapes were going to look a lot like Hunter hadn’t dropped off the money at all. Just a fake throw to mislead his boss.

 

Carter didn’t know how framing Hunter could save one Liam Strogger, but she trusted her boys enough now to try it. Still. _Two hours in a dumpster_. How had saving people come to this?

 

“You two had better keep me entertained.”

 

She nearly regretted the order. Finch immediately launched into an excited explanation of the new code he was developing, a breathless stream of numbers and terminology that went right over Carter’s head. She was sure he didn’t mean to, but the box poking into her back and Finch’s inaccessible genius talk just plummeted her mood...until John dryly teased back about the deluge of nerd. And Finch good-naturedly gave what he got. Before she knew it, Carter had a personal podcast of intimate teasing to lull her.

 

Finch and John... their voices were remarkably soft now. Soothing in their culture and confidence, respectively. Their words became a steady drone in her background, meshing with the warm night and the relentless exhaustion in her limbs. If Carter had been aware enough to think it, she would have been shocked to realize that the smell had almost entirely faded after 20 minutes or so, and the garbage, for all her initial disgust, was surprisingly soft when it came right down to it. It molded to her...and Carter drifted.

 

She would have been horrified to experience it: falling asleep on the job, and in a _dumpster_ no less. As it was, Carter was out cold and too far gone to notice.

 

What started drawing her out was a change in the timber of the voices. From a soothing ‘Detective Carter’ to the more urgent ‘ _Joss_.’ She woke with a start as a bag landed square on her right knee. Footsteps sounded as someone jogged away. Muddled, Carter reached forward and found bottles, paper, bit of food... and then the unmistakable feel of cash.

 

Finch and John were silent on their end. Carter wasn’t sure if she should feel embarrassed or not.

 

“I’ve got it,” she whispered and okay, yeah, definite embarrassment as the drowsiness in her voice. She hauled herself out of the dumpster on wobbling legs.

 

The line was no longer silent. Finch was back to typing again. “Take the alleyway to your left, Detective. I have a car waiting for you there. Please leave the money with the driver and… well. John and I thank you for your assistance.”

 

Right.

 

Of course, Carter was wired by the time she got a shower and crawled into bed, sleep suddenly illusive. She thought about the two strange men who’d listened to her nap for two hours... and resolutely turned over, punching her pillow.

 

This should be weird. Even in the grand scheme of what her life had become, this shouldn’t feel normal.

 

But Carter had never been very good at lying to herself. She did eventually sleep, and when she woke up the next morning the first thing she heard was Taylor shouting that there was a package outside their door. Inside they found a suit in charcoal grey, Michael Kors shoes, a reservation card for a night at Luciana’s... and a cheap air freshener, carved in the shape of a tree.

 

Honestly, convincing Taylor she didn’t have a secret admirer was the harder of the two missions. Carter told herself that she shouldn’t enjoy the challenge this much.

 

Shouldn’t enjoy the company either—seated at a secluded table that Saturday, alone before the hostess ushered in two men. They took their seats beside her.

 

Shouldn’t... but Carter did.

 


	3. Fusco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for the comments and kudos so far! This fandom is so nice <3

**3\. Fusco**

 

Fusco wasn’t a multitasking kind of guy. Some of them cops could get everything done in a day: all those cases organized first thing in the morning, paperwork done while driving to grab the perp, interviews that somehow turned into confessions, back home with time to eat _and_ play with the kids. Black magic, far as Fusco was concerned. He was a one case, one task kind of guy... which meant that Wonder boy’s extracurriculars had been throwing him for a bit of a loop. He could be forgiven if one or two of the smaller things slipped his mind, okay?

 

Like that goddamn bobble doll.

 

“You’re missing the show, Finch.”

 

John was seated in his chair at the library, feet up on the table by the left monitor, and before Finch did anything else he shuffled over and shooed those shoes back onto the ground. Heaven only knew where John’s feet had been lately, what they’d managed to pick up along the way. Well, the Machine knew, but that was a rather treacherous road they wouldn’t be exploring. Finch shook his head.

 

He finally looked and found—across three screens no less—a live feed of Fusco, asleep on his desk. There was no sound available with their makeshift camera, but Finch could well imagine the snores emanating from Fusco’s open mouth. There was a bit of drool on his chin.

 

“Riveting,” Finch muttered. John appeared rather pensive though, one hand pressed up against his mouth in a gesture of consideration. He stood automatically, giving Finch his seat back, but kept his eyes locked on Fusco’s form.

                                                                                                                                             

“Mr. Reese?”

 

His gaze skittered. “You know he’s been asleep an hour,” John said, voice pitched to imply that maybe Finch _did_ already know. Surveillance wasn’t the issue in question though, not today. John gestured sharply. “Not a single badge noticed.”

 

Finch startled. Taking a second look, he forced himself to focus beyond Fusco to the back of the precinct, where cops bustled past, none of them paying him any attention. And John was right. It wasn’t the teasing, ‘Shh, don’t wake him’ sort of reaction. The men and woman literally didn’t _notice_ him, eyes fixed to paperwork and co-workers... like Fusco was beneath their notice at all. Finch felt something hot rising up in his throat.

 

“ _Incompetent_ —” he cut himself off, swallowing the noun he’d chosen. Beside him, John nodded slowly.

 

“They underestimate him,” he said.

 

The statement was directed as much at them as it was the cops on the screen. Fusco was loud, brash, overweight, currently wrinkling his already ill-fitting suit... and Finch could well remember a time when that’s all he’d have seen. Now though, he picked up on what had captivated John an hour before: the image of an exhausted, noble man, done in by helping others.

 

“He’s going to hurt his back like that,” Finch sighed. He rubbed a hand over his neck in sympathy. That position was familiar.

 

John already had his phone out, Carter’s surprised voice sounding down the line. A minute later she appeared on the screens, entering the precinct to lay a hand gently on Fusco’s shoulder. He woke with a start.

 

“I’m up, I’m up,” he muttered.

 

Fusco chose to ignore the looks Carter was shooting him. Fucking hell, but that was the third time this week and his shoulders were beginning to feel it. He stretched with a groan and a belch—then caught sight of the doll.

 

Fusco couldn’t know that John had spent an hour watching over him. Or that Finch had found a commonality in their wildly different bodies, or even that both of them had acknowledged, perhaps for the first time, that he was far more than just an unwilling asset to them. He didn’t know.

 

So he turned the doll back towards Carter’s desk with a scowl and a ruddy stain in his cheeks. Freaking stalkers.

 

But in that moment—due to either divine intervention or something a little closer to home—all the work heading his way was suddenly diverted to other detectives, those who had so callously passed him by. A few minutes later his boss, looking about as befuddled as Fusco felt, said that the department was encouraging ‘mental health days’ now (“ _What?_ ”) and as there was nothing pressing for him to do (miraculous), he and Carter should take the rest of the day off.

 

Fusco didn’t understand it, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to question it either. He made sure the ex was set to pick up Lee after school. He drove home... feeling like he was being watched. Ignoring the invisible gaze, he tumbled straight into bed and slept, all his attention on that one, blissful act.

 

Fusco was a single-task kind of guy.


	4. Shaw

**2\. Shaw**  

 

 

You know that feeling when you’re ten-years old, your parents are out for the evening, and you’ve just realized that you have the run of the house all to yourself?

 

Shaw didn’t. But she thought she might be experiencing that feeling now, for the very first time.

 

“Just you and me, buddy.”

 

The library was deserted but for Shaw and Bear, the later of whom was prancing, hoping for a treat out of this strange setup. It took Shaw all of a minute to find them stuffed behind a copy of _Their Eyes Were Watching God_ (funny, Finch) and she tossed half the bag to Bear right then. Tonight was a night for _living_.

 

Their last Number was safe and, more importantly, they didn’t have a new one yet. Most everyone was resting, John off in his apartment and Finch holed up in whatever safe house he’d chosen that week. The annoying cop and the hot one had both run home to their kids, so Shaw was left to explore the library that everyone thought was still kept a secret from her.

 

That, and she had the dog.

 

“What should we do?” she asked, rolling back and forth in the chair. Bear cocked his head. “We could rough the place up a bit. Try to figure out Bird Boy’s secrets. Find more treats?”

 

Bear barked at the last word and Shaw threw him another handful. She didn’t stand up though. Despite suggesting it, Shaw knew her computer skills weren’t enough to crack Finch’s defenses. Or if she did, it would no doubt only last a second before Finch was calling her, six more walls up and his voice that nasal haughtiness it developed whenever he was mad. That would ruin all the fun.

 

And Shaw didn’t want to wreck the place. Call her a softie, but she liked these boys well enough now that she didn’t want to mess with their shit. Not much anyway. Shaw tipped an empty Starbucks cup over and a tiny bit of coffee crawled out.

 

“Rebellion,” she muttered. Then sighed. “God I’m so fucking _bored_.”

 

Downtime was a novelty. Damn thing didn’t exist in the agency. If you weren’t on a mission you were prepping for one. Or debriefing from one. If somehow your life wasn’t tied up with one of those three, then you were straight up surviving—food, sleep, taking that dump you didn’t have the luxury of pushing out on the run. The idea of free time was foreign and sort of overwhelming.

 

Shaw absently ran a hand over Bear’s head. John probably got it. He’d been through the same after all, and he’d somehow assimilated—or at least had gotten good enough at faking it that nobody noticed anymore. He and Finch did all sorts of shit together. Like movies and weird breakfast dates. Though actively understanding that and realizing she could _ask_ John about it... that didn’t even occur to Shaw. She wasn’t quite there yet.

 

So what to do?

 

No mission. Dinner was done (hello, Taco Tuesday). Shaw had friends now that she didn’t know how to talk to and a dog who didn’t want to play. Drugged on treats, Bear had pillowed his head in Shaw’s lap and was currently giving a massive yawn. Kibble breath wafted her way.

 

“We’ve both had our dump too,” Shaw said. “Guess that just leaves sleep. C’mon then. Fuck it.”

 

Now that she’d settled on it, Shaw was hyper aware of the heaviness in her limbs, the grit lodged in her eyes. No way was she going to drag Bear back to her crappy hotel, sneak him up or ‘negotiate’ the no pets rule with the manager. Shaw was sure Finch had a bed stashed here somewhere, but she didn’t feel up to finding that either. Her eyes had become freaking boulders.

 

Besides, there was already a bed on the floor.

 

“ _Oooh_ ,” Shaw groaned, stretching out on Bear’s matt. “Finch got you the good stuff, buddy. You’re treated better than me, jesus. You don’t mind sharing though, right?”

 

Definitely not. Bear let out a whine of pure joy and skidded into Shaw, ending up sprawled across her stomach. It took some maneuvering, but eventually she managed to kick off her boots, curl up her legs, and Shaw found herself more comfortable than she’d been in... ever.

 

“Good boy. Just don’t sleep too late. We can’t be found like this...”

 

She wouldn’t be. By the time Finch arrived next morning—shocked to find Shaw in his headquarters, nearly upending his tea—she’d look like she’d wandered in from a mysterious place of her own, bright-eyed and ready to kick ass. Untouchable.

 

For now though, Shaw pressed her face into the warmth of Bear’s fur.


	5. Root

**1\. Root**

 

 

Root didn’t really sleep anymore.

 

How could she? The Machine had her jumping from one identity to the next, barely enough time in between to get ahold of the necessary props, hoof it to her next location, google the required skill sets (she was thinking of writing a book: _How to Be Absolutely Everything For Dummies_ ), all while trying to tease out how this new job might fit into the larger scheme of things. Team Machine vs. Samaritan. Irrelevants before Relevants. Saving the world.

 

And sometimes they didn’t—sometimes the jobs were just another small blip in her miraculous, continued existence. Not that Root was complaining. Far from it. She owned the Machine and her creator absolutely everything.

 

And John. She supposed to owed John something too. Not that Root was ever going to tell him that.

 

“How long do I have?” she asked aloud, enjoying the double-take that the kid walking by gave her. Root bet she looked morbid, huddled on the park bench in nothing but jeans, a tattered sweater, and strips of cloth that posed as socks—none of it sufficient for this snowy weather. It wasn’t often that she felt so comfortable in her stolen identities, but Root was really warming up to this homeless gig.

 

Well. Metaphorically. She couldn’t quite feel her hands anymore.

 

Just then there was a light burst of static on her left. Root knew the Machine couldn’t always risk speaking directly to her, so their life had become a fantastic game of charades. She turned obediently and spotted a woman buying hot coffee from the food truck, stamping her feet and passing a bill over. A twenty. Ah. About twenty minutes then, until her new identity came up. Give or take.

 

“Change for the homeless?” Root asked sweetly, trying to make eye-contact with the woman as she passed. She hurried along faster.

 

That seemed about right. There was probably something to be said about priorities here—spending all their time saving these Numbers while passing by so many others who needed their help—but Root’s brain was feeling a little too muddled right now. Really, it was fascinating how quickly cold dulled the senses.

 

Hopefully the Machine sent her somewhere warm next.

 

Until then she could either catch a brief nap here on her bench... or call Shaw.

 

Ha. Like that was any contest.

 

Root scooted back until the trees hid her from the one camera off to her right. Wouldn’t do for Samaritan to notice such a nice cell in the hands of a supposedly destitute college dropout. That damn ASI had gotten better and better at picking out anomalies. Really, she shouldn’t take the risk at all.

 

But she would.

 

“What,” came the voice and Root immediately split into a grin.

 

“My dear Sameen. Thinking about me?”

 

“Fuck no. I’ve got chips.”

 

Sure enough there was a massive amount of noise—like a car pileup proceeded by a tsunami’s wave—and it took Root a moment to realize that Shaw was digging into a bag and stuffing said chips into her mouth, no doubt by the fistful. Root’s stomach underwent a massive cramp and she leaned back, resting her head as her vision swam. Hungry and cold was a particularly awful combination.

 

“Root? Yo, crazy cupcake. You there?”

 

“Get that from Fusco?” she murmured, wetting her lips. Root regretted it immediately. Her saliva only stung the cracks and splits there.

 

Maybe she’d groaned louder than intended because Shaw was silent a long time. “No,” she finally said. “That’s a special of mine. When the hell did you last sleep?”

 

Why hello, Ms. Pot. Lovely to meet you. I’m Ms. Kettle. Still, Root wasn’t about to admit, even to Shaw, that she probably hadn’t slept, _properly_ slept, since Samaritan had gone up online. It was more that she passed out briefly in slightly less dangerous spots, or trusted her body’s ability to power through on coffee and the occasional pill. She’d actually gotten more micro-sleep than anything else: brief, awful moments of lost time, strangers nudging her shoulder with a concerned, “Okay there? You were zoning out...”

 

The cold wasn’t helping.

 

Root huddled a little deeper, pulling her legs up and tucking her hands under her knees. “When did _you_ last sleep?” she asked. It was the best she could counter with in these conditions.

 

“You gotta fucking step up here.”

 

Root blinked. Her mind, fuzzy, went blank a moment, curling in on itself protectively. It took a few long, deep breaths to realize that those hissed words hadn’t been aimed at her. Shaw had never used a tone like that on her. Not even at their worst.

 

She was about to ask who she was talking to when Shaw continued with an even quieter, “She can’t fucking go on like this. We’re not _machines_.”

 

Ah.

 

That cleared things up a fair bit. Root could picture it easily now, Shaw lounging somewhere in the subway, glaring at the nearest camera. Maybe it was one of Harry’s laptops, or she’d gotten out her phone… regardless, Shaw had always been one to look at the Machine when she yelled at her. Root thought it showed some strange type of respect. Shaw addressed the Machine as if she had a familiar body, and she certainly didn’t hold back on her criticism. They were—oddly enough—equals in her eyes.

 

 _God_ Root loved them both.

 

Best not to let Shaw know she’d heard.

 

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Root said brightly, enjoying the horrified splutter that came down the line. Not too horrified though. Black humor was a specialty of theirs. Indeed, Root already felt warmer. Oh, she knew she was still in danger of frostbite if she didn’t get out of the cold soon, but she’d actually learned to appreciate emotional warmth the last few years. The kind you got from family and friends.

 

She’d honestly never expected to have those.

 

Their conversation, if it could really be termed such, was the play they’d long grown used to: Root flirted, Shaw snapped, Shaw tried to trick her into admitting her location, Root drew on every last faculty she had left to dissuade her. It was fun, and before she knew it her twenty minutes were up.

 

A man’s phone went off as he passed Root by. He frowned at the screen. No caller.

 

“That’s my cue,” she sighed. “Going to draw me a hot bath for when I get home, sweetie?”

 

Shaw didn’t answer and Root blinked, sitting up. That wasn’t like her. The answer came just a second later, in the sound of water that Root had missed up until now.

 

“... kinda already giving Bear a bath,” Shaw muttered, like she was embarrassed about it. Root grinned and lifted her eyes heavenward.

 

“I thought you had chips?”

 

“I can’t have _both_?”

 

“Of course. Stupid of me...”

 

Root hung up like she always did with Shaw, abruptly and (hopefully) while they were both smiling. She never knew when a call might be her last and she wasn’t going to ruin it with something as awful as a goodbye.

 

Pocketing the cell Root slid back into the camera’s view. She eyed it, coy.

 

“Did Sameen cower you into submission?” she asked the Machine.

 

Apparently she _had_. With directions in her ear Root walked just two blocks, stumbling into an empty office space currently appropriated for research. New York University was conducting a series of tests on the REM cycle and the only requirements were generally healthy men and women between the ages of thirty and fifty-five. The fact that Root was ‘homeless’ hardly mattered at all.

 

They gave her some food. A perfunctory shower and a sterile gown. They hooked her up to monitors and had her lay in a bed that, while hard, was unimaginably warm.

 

Tomorrow she’d be someone new. She probably should have been that someone today. But thanks to her two favorite girls, Root finally got some sleep.


	6. Finch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final installment! Thank you again for all the LOVELY comments and kudos (seriously, they make my day like nothing else). I hope you all enjoyed this humble 5&1 even half as much as I enjoyed writing it <3 <3 <3

**+1 Finch**

 

The concierge knew him by sight, despite the fact that Finch had yet to set foot in this hotel. But he owned the building, there were photos of him—even despite his best efforts—and the man was paid handsomely to be prepared for any occurrence.

 

Which was why he didn’t bat an eye when Finch was trailed by five people in the worst possible condition: torn clothing, soaked from the rain, limping gaits, expressions haunted by things they couldn’t speak of yet. More than one carried guns on their back. All the concierge did though was hand over the key and enquire if Finch would be needing anything else. He said no. Food would come later, hours from now, and everything else they might need was upstairs.

 

Walking down the gilded hall, Finch caught sight of his group in one of the many mirrors. He was the only one put together, his suit impeccable.

 

That’s because he was the only one not in danger tonight. Finch scowled at his reflection and looked away.

 

The ride up to the penthouse was swift and silent. They crowded into the small elevator, none of them willing to separate, and Finch, normally one for personal boundaries, positively relished the closeness. John was on his right and hadn’t left that spot since they’d been reunited, pressed so close that Finch could feel it every time he took in a quick, shallow breath. (Bruised ribs then. Possibly broken). John’s feet stepped where his stepped. His hand was parallel to Finch’s own, close enough to take. So he did. The only thing separating Ms. Groves and Shaw were the pistols neither were ready to give up. Fusco was supporting Carter, the two of them far past jokes and pride. No one noticed fingers slipping together, and if they did they wouldn’t have begrudged him.

 

Finch led them into the motel suite.

 

Despite the hotel’s overall luxury, it was fairly simply by his standards. When Finch had reserved the space he’d poured all the funds into things his guests would actually appreciate: tinted, bullet-proof windows; retina-scan entrance that opened only for them, state-of-the-art detectors that caught far more than just smoke; no cameras at all. He felt the collective sigh as they stepped inside.

 

“I’ll get the first aid,” Shaw muttered, their first words in an hour. Finch had to clear his throat until it worked again.

 

“Bathroom. Top cabinet.”

 

Sometimes fighting a war took its toll in ways you couldn’t brush off with a joke and a smile. Even a simple, ‘I’m fine’ wouldn’t suffice. There had to be moments where you either bent... or you broke. By some unspoken agreement, they’d collectively decided that tonight was one of those moments.

 

So Finch had brought them here.

 

“—being a baby,” Shaw was saying and Finch jerked, realizing that time had passed. Shaw was splinting a grimacing Fusco’s wrist while Root watched from the kitchen sink, slowly washing the gravel out of her knees. Carter had gotten John’s shirt off and was wrapping his ribs, her hands shaking with every turn of the bandage. He kept one hand pressed solidly in the small of her back, but his eyes were on Finch.

 

‘Okay?’ his gaze asked and no, the answer was absolutely not. But they’d have to be. Eventually.

 

Finch loosened and pulled off his tie.

 

None of them had mentioned it yet. It was more than he’d dared hope for, his assumption—more of a prayer—that this would be okay knotting up his stomach. Finch had known while remodeling the suite what would bring them the most peace, but acting on it was something else entirely. Now, his family’s silence was a treasured agreement.

 

His final change to the suite had been the addition of a massively oversized bed, taking up half the room connected to the kitchen. They could all see it. There was nowhere else to sleep in the entire suite. Note even a couch.

 

Finch’s tie. Root’s pants. John’s shirt. It was more than enough to keep everyone going. Filthy, dripping clothes dropped wherever their owners were standing and then they moved, nearly as one, over to the bed. By the time Finch finished slipping on pajamas John was already beneath the sheets, Carter pillowed on his chest with nothing but a tank on. He kept his other side open (still on Finch’s right) and moved the pillows without needing to be asked, ensuring they supported his back and neck. Carter hardly stirred during the process, already out.

 

Fusco seemed the most tentative, but he found his place quickly enough: curved around Carter’s back, nose pressed near her hair. She was still shaking slightly, even in sleep, but she stilled the moment he settled behind her. Maybe it was just the body heat, but Finch would have bet on something far more.

 

Root and Shaw were a pair of course, and Finch was hardly surprised when they claimed his left, Root briefly kissing his forehead like he was a child in need of his mother. Tonight he didn’t mind—simply smoothed her hair as she lay down beside him. For her part, Shaw had curled up in the hollow of Root’s legs, head resting on one bony arm. Finch was tempted to comment that she was sleeping like the pet dog, like Bear... but didn’t. The end of the bed provided her with a perfect view of both them and the door. He wouldn’t deny her that.

 

Finch took a deep breath... and let it out.

 

They’d already smeared blood on the sheets. John’s hand was in his hair. Fusco snored. Shaw was tracing something along Root’s thigh. Fusco snored louder. Carter was quiet. With a whispered command Finch turned off the lights and plunged them into a welcome darkness.

 

There would be normalcy tomorrow. Things like embarrassment and teasing (Finch’s blue, collared pajamas; the tattoo none of them knew Fusco had) and it might be bad enough that they never did this again. Maybe. Maybe not. For now, all they truly needed was each other... and some sleep.

 

“Goodnight,” Finch murmured. The sentiment was returned by five, drowsy voices.

 

 

Fin. 


End file.
